by Sharon Sala
“Griff, please don’t,” she said quickly. “Someone will see.”
But as she looked across the street, to her dismay, she realized her caution had come too late. Three of the most disreputable-looking men she’d ever seen were coming out of the Adam’s Rib Café.
One was short. Another seemed as broad as he was tall. They were unshaven and unkempt. Their clothing ranged from black leather to worn and faded denim. The short, skinny one actually had the audacity to grin at her, then wink. But it was the tall one wearing black, dusty denim and a three-day growth of whiskers who caught her eye.
He stood a head above the others in stature, and even from where she was standing, she felt his eyes raking her body from her head to her toes. Neither by word or by deed did he reveal what he might be thinking, yet Rachel felt the impact of his gaze as if she’d been gut-kicked. Breathless, and more than a little bit nervous, she tried to break his stare, but instead found herself unable to move. Griff’s presence was forgotten, and there was a fleeting sensation of having stood beneath this man’s gaze once before.
Griff frowned, for once refusing to hide his displeasure. “Damn it, Rachel...”
But his comment was forgotten when he realized that Rachel was no longer looking at him but at a point past his shoulder. Her eyes were wide and fixed, and her mouth was slightly parted. Startled by the intensity of her gaze, he turned, following the direction of her stare.
“Oooh, Lordy, wouldya look at the tits on her?”
Tommy Joe Smith followed the direction of Snake Martin’s stare to the couple who were standing in the doorway of the EMS station. Snake’s grin was lost behind a thick brush of brown, curly beard, but his leer was unmistakable. Tommy Joe had to admit Snake seemed to have an eye for the finer things in life, but he kept thinking of Denver Cherry, sitting at home waiting for them to come back with his food.
“Now, Snake, we got more important things to do today. Denver’s waitin’ on us, remember?”
The mention of Denver Cherry’s name was enough to suck the smile off Snake’s face. He glanced back at Tommy Joe, then over his shoulder, to the third man in their trio.
“I still say she’s got some real pretty tits. Ain’t that what you say, Boone?”
Boone MacDonald stifled the urge to put his fist all the way down Snake’s throat. Damn him, and damn this situation. To his dismay, the woman they were ogling was none other than the one he’d found crying in the stream. The one whose voice had trembled with fear at his arrival—the same one who’d chosen to take her chances by running through the woods in the dark rather than risk another moment alone with him.
For the first time since he’d taken his oath of office, he hated what he was doing. People judged by appearances, and he knew how he appeared. He’d worked long and hard at perfecting his image...and his cover. And should someone be inclined to check, they would find out that one Boone MacDonald had a very dirty rap sheet, that he’d done time in and out of state, and that, when riled, he bad more than a tendency toward violence.
On the job, his real name and true existence were kept hidden in an unused part of his mind. For Boone MacDonald, decent women did not exist. It had been so dark last night, even with the moonlight, that he’d believed himself safe. But from the expression on her face, he feared she’d recognized him as the man from the woods.
The only thing he could think of doing was to move, and move now. The last thing he needed was for her to point him out to that fancy man beside her. He didn’t want anyone knowing where he’d been last night. Snake and Tommy Joe believed he’d been in Kansas, just what he’d led them to think. Having someone accuse him of sneaking around up on the Kiamichis last night could get him shot.
“Damn it, Boone, I asked you a question,” Snake muttered.
Boone blinked, breaking the stare between himself and the woman, then glared down at Snake.
“She’s not my type,” Boone drawled. “I like my women blond and crazy, with long legs and red nails.”
Snake’s grin broke through the thick bush of his beard, revealing a mouthful of yellowing teeth. The image Boone had put in his mind made him giggle.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his head flopping up and down on his scrawny neck like a cork bobbing on water. “I know just the kind you mean.”
Tommy Joe waved a greasy sack in Snake’s face. “Oh, man, if Denver could hear you two, he’d puke. Now come on, we gotta be going. The boss is waitin’ for his ribs, and you know how Denver gets when he’s hungry.”
Relieved that the conversation had taken a turn away from the woman, Boone started toward his truck without waiting for the motley pair to follow.
From the corner of his eye, Boone saw the man beside her take her by the arm, then heard him call her name aloud. He paused, letting the sound soak into his mind. As he slid behind the steering wheel, a small, satisfied smile spread across his face.
So her name is Rachel.
Chapter 3
In the fall, dark came early in the mountains. By the time Rachel got off work and picked up a few groceries, it was already night. As she drove home, the headlights of her car beamed brightly on the narrow blacktop road, scaring away a rabbit and spotlighting a deer that had just started to cross. The big buck froze in the oncoming glare, and Rachel hit the brakes, fishtailing slightly to keep from hitting it. But when the tires started squealing, the buck jumped as if someone had prodded it from behind, then bounded off the road and out of sight.
Rachel breathed a sigh of relief, her fingers curling around the steering wheel as she stared past the yellow beams of light, searching the darkness to make sure it was gone. But while she was looking, she thought of the man who’d walked out of the trees last night, and in a fit of panic she stomped on the accelerator, leaving behind a wake of flying leaves and burnt rubber.
A few minutes later, when she pulled into the driveway, anxiety was still with her. Grabbing her bag of groceries, she slung her purse over her shoulder and bolted for the door.
Only after she was inside, with the door shut and locked, did she start to relax. As she passed through the rooms, she turned on light after light. By the time she got to the kitchen, her nervousness was almost gone. After changing out of her uniform and into an old pair of jeans and a loose long- sleeved shirt, she began preparing her food.
Somewhere beyond the ring of trees that surrounded her place, dogs yipped and then bayed as they did when treeing prey. At that moment, an idea came that filled her with relief.
A hunter! That was probably who found me last night!
Pleased that she’d given herself an answer she could live with, she went on preparing her dinner.
Yet all during her solitary meal, and even afterward, she fought a lingering hint of anxiety. Disgusted with herself for being faint of heart, she started to turn off the lights to get ready for bed.
The first switch Rachel turned sent the living room into darkness, and for a moment, before reality returned, she felt just as disoriented as she had when waking up in the stream. Shadows seemed to shift before her eyes. She stared until the familiar shapes of her couch and matching chairs became more than hulking figures in a dark, quiet room.
“You’re losing it, Rachel,” she muttered, and went to turn out the light still burning in the kitchen.
The scent of supper lingered in the air, the tantalizing aroma of broiled ham, the homey scents of butter beans and thick, crusty yellow corn bread. She gave the room a quick last glance, making sure everything was neatly in place, then flipped that switch as well.
But when those lights went out, her throat tightened. She stood in the darkened room, glancing nervously toward the back of the house. The light from her bedroom spilled out into the hall beyond, marking a place on the floor. In her mind, the warm yellow glow spelled safety.
She had to stop this craziness. This was her home...her haven. But even as she was listening to the voice of her rational self, she found herself walking back to the kitchen windo
ws for a last, lingering look.
Outside, the lawn was heavy with dew. Moonlight glimmered on the glistening water droplets holding fast to the grass, giving the yard the appearance of frost, although Rachel knew it was not cold enough to freeze. A slight breeze pushed and tugged at the empty swing hanging from the limb of a gnarled oak. Something clattered out on the porch, and she leaned forward, peering toward the corner of the house, where the racket continued.
Inner tension melted as an empty bucket rolled into view, its bail flopping from one side to the other as it bounced off the porch, then along the grass. Weak at the knees, she sighed with relief.
“Another big deal out of nothing,” she mumbled, then frowned as the bucket continued to roll farther and farther away from the house. That was her best bucket! If she let it go until morning, there was no telling where it might end up if some animal got hold of it.
Darn it all.
Ignoring the nervous jerk of her heart when the tumblers of the door lock clicked loudly in the silence, she took a deep breath and stepped onto the porch, pausing on the broad stone steps to survey the scene before her. Glancing nervously at bushes, she looked beyond the obvious, to what might be waiting for her, unseen.
As she stood, the brisk breeze began playing with wayward bits of her hair that had escaped its braid. Satisfied that all was normal, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting herself become one with the darkness, instead of fearing it.
Off to her right, the low, mournful call of a dove soon brought an answer from its mate somewhere up ahead.
I’m not the only one who feels lost and nervous tonight.
When she opened her eyes and looked up, a black-velvet sky shot through with pinpoints of lights winked down at her with timeless persistence. She smiled. The panic was gone. As she started down the steps, a night moth fluttered past her hand.
“Watch where you’re going, buddy. You’re not the only traveler out here tonight.”
Blithely unaware of anything except the backyard security light toward which it was heading, the moth rode the breeze, safely out of her reach.
Now that Rachel was out, she didn’t want to go back. She retrieved the bucket, setting it safely out of the wind, then returned to the porch, loath to give up her unexpected rapport with the night.
As she sat down on the old stone steps, the lingering heat they’d absorbed during the day still felt warm to her hands. Absently she undid her braid and, in lieu of a brush, began combing her fingers through the thick, dark lengths. The weight of hair on her back was just a little bit less than the weight in her heart, and out of nowhere came a longing for someone with whom she could share this time.
Just not Griffin Ross.
The knowledge was sudden, but too sure to be denied. The image of his handsome, smiling face popped into her head. Ashamed, she buried her face in her hands.
I don’t love him. I’m not even certain I really like him. But why? What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with him, that I can’t give my heart away?
Unbidden, the outlaw from her dream superimposed himself over Griff’s face, changing light hair to dark and blue eyes to black. One man’s smile died, becoming a solemn expression in another’s face—a face filled with longing too strong to be denied.
Rachel gasped. The image was so strong, so sure! She was certain that when she looked up, the man from her dream would be standing before her. But when she looked, there was no one there.
Stifling an odd sense of disappointment, she gazed across the yard and down the slope to the trees below, almost holding her breath. Everything seemed normal. Nothing was out of place.
Again she thought of going to bed, and then feared that if she did, another sleepwalking episode might occur. She thought of last night and the state in which she’d returned to the house, long hair flying and dripping wet, wearing nothing but a nightgown stuck fast to her body, and groaned.
“I probably frightened that hunter as badly as he did me.”
But the assumption didn’t lighten her mood. Like a bad penny, her thoughts returned to Griff. She didn’t know what she was going to do about him, but a decision needed to be made, and soon. It wasn’t fair to keep leading him on, letting him believe that she felt something for him that wasn’t there.
Saturday night was only days away, yet it loomed in her conscience like doomsday. A dance. Griff had asked her to a dance. It wasn’t as if he’d asked to spend the night, although she’d seen that desire in his eyes more than once. And if Charlie hadn’t interrupted, she also knew she would already have said yes to the dance, simply for lack of a reason to say no.
A swift gust of wind suddenly cornered the house, shifting the neck of her shirt and cooling the skin beneath like the urgent breath of an anxious lover. Sighing with pent-up longing, she finally accepted the truth of her life. She didn’t know what her future held, but Griffin Ross did not belong anywhere in it.
Still on the steps and now one with the night, she wished for a man like the man from her dreams.
Outlaw or not, he was loving and gentle with me.
Rachel jerked. Mentally she’d just put herself in the shoes of a woman called Mercy. Panicked by a warning she didn’t understand, she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, though not from cold.
But Rachel was not the kind of woman to live in a dream world. Today the reality of life had metaphorically slapped her in the face. A real-life outlaw had been standing on the streets of Razor Bend, staring at her and making no attempt to hide his interest or apologize for the company he kept.
A shiver of warning came over her, and she wished he had not witnessed her kissing Griffin Ross. She could have dismissed the incident without thought if it hadn’t been for him. But he’d seen, and she couldn’t forget. In fact, he’d stared so intently that she’d begun to imagine his breath upon her face. In spite of his needing a shave, his dark, handsome looks had intrigued her...reminded her of someone...someone she’d once known. If only she could remember who...
She stood up with a jerk. Thoughts like that were dangerous for lonely women, and Rachel knew it.
“He didn’t intrigue me. Not at all. It was...it was curiosity, and nothing more.”
Aggravated at herself and at the flight of fancy her mind had taken, she stomped across the grass to the empty swing dancing alone in the breeze. Scooting onto the old board seat, she pushed off, setting sail in the moonlight with a satisfied sigh.
Thinking of her partner, Charlie, she chuckled. “If he could see me now, he’d call me crazy for playing in the dark.”
But she didn’t care. The wind felt good on her face. The feeling of weightlessness lifted her spirits, and before she knew it, she was flying up and back, her legs pumping with each swing, caught up in a wayward joy not unlike that of the night moth that had swooped past her hand.
While waiting for his call to go through, Boone watched a cockroach crawling up the wall of the tin can he called home. It was past time to check in with his contact, and while he had nothing new to report, he knew that Waco still wanted to hear her sweet boy’s voice. That was the order given, tongue in cheek, by Captain Susan Cross, who was not only Boone’s contact, but also his immediate superior.
The phone number Boone used was a dedicated phone line in the captain’s office. And if she wasn’t there in person, the message on her answering machine was as low and sexy and as atypical as the code name that hid her true identity.
The rings came, one after the other, and on the fourth ring, when the machine should have kicked on, Boone’s expression lightened as Waco’s low, husky voice purred in his ear.
“This is Waco. Talk to me. It’s been a long, lonely night.”
“Hey, sweetheart, what’s happening?”
“Boone...darling, it’s about time you gave me a call” Waco’s sweet, sexy voice was her only physical asset, in direct opposition to her thick, stocky body, her short, graying hair and the gold-rimmed half glasses she wore down on her nose.
In spite of the fact that she was his boss, Boone never had to fake a smile when he heard her speak. He was hearing her call him “darling,” but in his mind, he could just see that intent bulldog expression she always got when business was at hand.
“Sweet thing!” Waco cooed. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy again, haven’t you? Why didn’t you call me last night like you promised?”
Boone grinned as he leaned over and picked up a dirty yellow tennis ball from the floor near his boot. With unerring aim, he drew back and threw it, nailing the cockroach on the first throw, then retrieving the ball as it bounced back his way.
Captain Cross frowned at the thump she heard over the phone.
“What was that?”
“Bug patrol,” Boone drawled, and tossed the tennis ball into a nearby chair.
Ignoring his insinuating reference to the dive in which he was living, she focused on the business at hand.
“So, when are you coming to see me, handsome? It’s been a long, long time since I’ve kissed your sweet face.”
Boone grinned. “Yes, ma’am, I’d venture to say it has.”
At the word ma’am, Susan Cross leaned back in her chair and then grinned. “I take it you’re alone.”
“Affirmative, Captain.”
Her voice sharpened. “Okay, then the gloves are off. Why didn’t you check in last night? I had visions of having to send out the troops to comb those damned mountains for your body.”
Boone shifted his cell phone to the other ear and then leaned forward, staring at the floor as he sifted through what he could tell her, as opposed to what was better left unsaid.
“I started to, and then things changed. I almost got lucky.”
Cross rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s just dandy, but I don’t want to hear about your prowess in bed. I need facts. You’ve been under too long now as it is. I’m considering. pulling you out and coming at this bunch from a different angle.”
Boone jumped to his feet, and when he spoke again, his voice was deep and demanding. “No way.” And then he imagined Cross thrusting out her chin as she always did when readying for a verbal battle.